Antler Dust (The Allison Coil Mystery Series Book 1) by Mark Stevens Read Free Book Online Page A

Grumley.
    “Yeah. They’re looking for a missing person in a blizzard and they won’t even crash his tent to make sure the guy hasn’t passed out or died of fuckin’ embarrassment for being part of that stupid protest.”
    Boyles laughed and Grumley joined in.
    The barn was busy with pre-hunt rituals. The next batch of hopeful hunters was packing up. Grumley had already checked in with a few of them. He had chatted with them, offering information about the best locations and the proper way to quarter a carcass. Everyone liked to chew on a bit of Grumley’s world. It was part of the package, even on this side, the legal side. He had showered and chugged his way through half a pot of coffee and then fretted around and criticized a few guides, for the hell of it, as they loaded up the packhorses and mules.
    “He’s a goner unless he was a professional mountaineer,” said Boyles, just making conversation. “But from what I gather, he was the kind of guy who would have had a tough time with a sleepover in his own backyard.”
    “Nasty up there,” said Grumley.
    News delivered, Boyles drifted off.
    “One other thing,” said Grumley. Boyles stopped like a dog on a choke chain. “Find someone to go tell my hunting buddies that they’re on their own for a few days. However long they want to hang around is fine. Tell them I got pulled away, make some shit up. Marcovicci knows his way around; he can handle anything.”
    “Done,” said Boyles.
    “And tell ’em, too, that Applegate headed off. Might be back, might not. Tell ’em I’ll be back to check in a few days. Make up a juicy story, okay? Tell ’em I got busy digging out a backcountry camp. Whatever. Make it good.”
    ****
    Grumley plunged his old Ford pickup down the slope through the bog birch and parked it in the pristine powder covering the dirt driveway. No one had been in or out of Rocky Carnivitas’ mobile home for a day or more. The handle turned. It was unlocked, a typical backwoods practice.
    The interior of the old Streamliner was cramped, more like a steel cave than a home. It was only five short steps from front to back. In the middle, where the airplane-sized bathroom and storage closet faced each other on opposite sides of the floor plan, Grumley’s shoulders scraped the walls. There was a bedroom in back.
    Small wonder, Grumley thought, that Trudy’s company and Trudy’s closeness held a certain appeal.
    The refrigerator yielded nothing but sour milk and a half loaf of stiff, moldy white bread, the cheap stuff.
    Everything looked normal. The kitchen was straightforward enough, including the photographs taped to the cupboard doors: Rocky in various poses with hunted game, in various seasons and in various terrains. The game included a mountain lion, a bighorn sheep and a half-dozen elk and deer. There wasn’t much Rocky hadn’t killed. One of the elk sported a towering rack, near trophy size. Rocky had wedged himself in between the antlers and flashed a wicked grin. He looked simultaneously ecstatic and angry, as if his main spring was wound one crank too tight.
    Grumley took forty-five dollars out of a tin box next to a tape deck on a ledge above the bed. He checked the tiny bathroom for secret compartments. Fuckin’ Rocky, he thought. The business now produced more cash in a month than the sporting goods store generated in a year and it was not to be messed with by anyone. Rocky had been among the best. Until he got stupid.
    Grumley went back to the elk antler photograph. Rocky wasn’t quite as sheepish as his quiet manner had suggested upon first hire. Christ, that grin. Another poser. Grumley was sick and tired of the fakers and their bullshit. Rocky had been a coward and a fool for having been sucked into Trudy’s world. He had wanted something for nothing. Worse, he’d been a major irritation. Staring at that semi-leer between the elk’s huge headgear, Grumley wished he could kill him all over again.
    ****
    Suddenly, reporters. A